


Why We Exist

by theroomstops



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroomstops/pseuds/theroomstops
Summary: “Do you ever think about the meaning of life?”Everyone wants to beseen.





	Why We Exist

**Author's Note:**

> Set before her death and after it. Deals with what I perceive to be Julia's thoughts before St. Matthews, and with some of David's thoughts after Julia's death into the near future. 
> 
> I was inspired after seeing a David/Julia montage set to the song "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last. It's absolutely stunning, and the song is so beautiful: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z35w5IpPIwo

“Do you ever think about the meaning of life?”

David’s eyes opened, not expecting to hear her voice yet. She was usually quiet right after sex, at least in his experience so far, too spent and satiated to talk much. Her skin was still slick against his, her thighs trembled around his own. His breath was heavy and his chest heaving to recover as they sat still joined together on the sofa. She hadn’t moved, and instead of her usual routine, she’d begun kissing him. Slowly. Leisurely. He didn’t mind, it was nice, he just felt confused. Just as he’d felt utterly bewildered when they’d returned from their trip to Chequers not long before they’d ended up on that sofa. Her entire behavior that day had been odd, all of which had culminated in David waiting for an hour outside the Prime Minister’s country home before they’d driven back to London in silence. He’d opened the door to her room from his own upon arriving back, and found her sitting on the floor against the door, arms and head resting on her raised knees. He’d studied her for a few minutes, watched as she drew deep breaths with her face hidden by her coat sleeves. He’d called her name gently after a while, and her demeanor had changed instantly. She had turned from soft to hard in a second. 

She’d met him in the middle of the room and the steely Home Secretary had removed their clothes, turned into his seductress and jumped into his arms. He’d almost fallen over when he’d stumbled towards the sofa, distracted by the eagerness and her wet mouth on his. She’d wiggled against his hands on her buttocks, until he’d drawn a deep breath and leaned back against the sofa cushion as she quickly brought his cock to life in the palm of her hand. She’d been relentless, not let him have a moment to think or ask questions about what the hell had just happened. Like she was trying to fuck all his unspoken questions out of him, into nothingness. And eventually he’d stopped caring. She had felt too good around him, and he’d re-focused his attention on her. She’d done all the work while he’d just sat there, and still, he could barely breathe. She’d looked almost desperate and he’d let her set the pace as she wanted it. He’d lost control at the end, gasped her name repeatedly as he came, all too loudly, and she’d quickly covered his mouth with her own to maintain their secret.

“Mind letting me catch my breath before you ask deep questions? I worry you’re trying to kill me.” He brushed the hair off her face, not feeling in any way prepared to answer her question.

“No really, what do you think it is? Why do we exist?” He felt uneasy. Not by her question, but rather by the tone combined with her previous behavior. As he strived for a response, he felt a chill and could see goose bumps on her arms, so he stood up and walked them both to the bedroom. Her bedroom. The crime scene for all their sins. She slipped into the bathroom and he settled under the covers as he waited for her. Didn’t take long until she appeared again, drinking from a glass bottle. Her right hand caressed his arm as she crawled in beside him, and he pulled the blanket from the bottom of the bed to cover them. She rested on his arm as she looked up at him. “Why are _**you**_ here, David?”

“I think my enthusiastic approval a few minutes ago would have made that clear.” His left hand grabbed her waist and pulled her closer. So close he could feel the slight stickiness of _them_ on her thigh when she wrapped her leg around his.

“I don’t mean in this room. I know why you’re _here_.” She blushed, just barely, a hint of a smile creeping across her lips as she grabbed the arm he’d placed underneath her neck and laced her fingers with his. “Don’t you ever think about why you’re on the planet?”

“I guess to be the best person I can be. Love my kids. Turn them into good people. And apparently, lately I’m here to throw away all my principles shacked up in here with you.” He giggled a bit against her mouth, and pressed his lips against hers. She still looked inquisitive and he decided to turn the question around on her. “What do you think it is? The meaning of life or whatever it was you said?”

“To be seen.”

“Loved.” 

“No, being loved is easy. You can be loved many times, in different ways and still not be seen. It doesn’t have to be a lover or a parent, it just has to be someone, just once. I think that’s what everyone wants; to be seen.” Julia’s voice trailed off a bit and she sighed. David felt almost afraid to breathe, worried he would stop her from saying whatever it was she was trying to express. “If people don’t see us, what’s the point of all of this? If you don’t take the time to look at the sky at night, you can’t see the stars, can you? And if we don’t actually see them, do they really exist to us? We all know they’re there, we learn about them, but until we really look at them, they’re just elements. A mix of hydrogen and helium existing 25 trillion miles away, something plain and boring that most of us don’t really understand. They’re almost magical, and most people don’t ever take the time to notice them at all.”

“Christ, Julia.”

“How’s that for deep, Sergeant Budd?”

“You’re a constant surprise. You know, Chanel Dyson said to me once, that ‘you liked to be seen’. I get the feeling she didn’t mean it the way you do though, did she?”

“I don’t think Chanel considers me human, David, let alone worthy enough of her time to know anything about me.” She looked up at him, eyebrow raised and he saw the familiar no-nonsense look on her face. Then her face softened and the weight of her head pressed against his arms as she whispered; “No one does.” 

She looked sort of… melancholic. Her stare withdrew from his and he kissed her forehead, hoping to convey some sort of comfort as she processed whatever was going on inside her head that he couldn’t understand yet.

“What happened tonight, Julia? Why were you at Chequers - without backup, without an appointment? The PM clearly wasn’t expecting us.” She chewed on her lip as she studied his face again, and he got the instinct sense that she wanted to tell him. To share the burden, he assumed, because it seemed like something was weighing heavily on her. He prepared himself as best he could, for whatever she would tell him. Instead, she sighed, gave him a half-smile and kissed his lips. And he was left none the wiser.

They stayed in silence for a while, as David’s head filled with questions and ideas and worries. Occasionally, he’d feel her squeeze his hand a bit, her thumb caressing his, before she disappeared into deep thought again. She released his hand and turned over to rest on her stomach, while David propped his head up on his arm.

“Did you know that when you look up at the stars, some of them are already dead? They keep shining, even after they’ve died. Like magic. There’s a rational explanation too, but I like thinking that it says something about us. That if someone’s seen you, if you’ve meant something to someone, you’ll live on in a way that you don’t otherwise. Like stars.” His heart ached inside his chest. He felt short of breath. Unsure of how to take the words she’d said, if they were even meant for him, or just a random thought. He was still learning the ways of how Julia Montague operated. 

“Not something you expected to hear from me, is it?”

“Not quite.” He stroked her back and saw her relax as she rested her head on her arms in front of her.

“Well, I’m just full of surprises.” She murmured softly and smiled, and she finally seemed more like the Julia he’d gotten to know in the past few weeks. Who could be cold and distant outside the walls of her suite, but who would look at him with tenderness and warmth in the sanctuary of this room. He caressed her back as he watchesd her start to drift off to sleep.

He forgets to think of his wife more and more as the days pass by. The more time he spends here, with _her_. He’s reminded of his family when he looks at his phone, feels bad that their lives are disrupted because of him, but not so bad that it stops him from allowing himself to enjoy this. Enjoy _Julia_. Her company, her voice, her mind, her body. At first, he felt compelled to excuse what he’s doing by telling himself that everyone has needs, even him. That he hadn’t slept with anyone in so long that when Julia first touched him, it could have been anyone and he would have done the same thing. He knows it’s not true. When he got married, he had no intention of sleeping with a woman that wasn’t Vicky ever again. He was determined to be the faithful husband his parents had taught him to be. And he’d felt the same way more than 10 years later, when his wife had kicked him out of their home and begged him to get help. Even felt the same when she’d brought another man into _their_ bedroom and later told him about it in _their_ kitchen. 

And then Julia’s lips had tentatively met his in the aftermath of fear and trauma, and he’d become a hypocrite. In this bed. Every time he comes back to it, he feels less like a hypocrite and more like an addict. And now he forgets to phone his wife every night. Still does when he remembers to, but it’s not by instinct, as he once did. He drinks expensive wine in a glass, not cheap beer, and he listens to Julia’s soft breaths as she falls asleep next to him, instead of calling his wife to hear her voice. He’d heard her voice in his head yesterday, mixed with Anne Sampson’s and Lorraine Craddock’s. Heard them all telling him why all this was a bad idea, all of their accusations, demands and games fighting for attention up there, as his knees dropped to the wet shower tiles and his hands held Julia’s hips steady against his mouth. Quickly, Julia’s moans had drowned out the voices in his head and he’d forgotten again. Part of him thinks he has to stop, that they can’t continue playing with fire. That he should probably be the faithful husband, get the help he might need and then wait until he’s allowed back into his house. The rest of him feels like he has to absorb all of Julia Montague that he can before time runs out. 

“I see you, Julia.”

“I believe you, David.”

 

____________________

 

When he was told Julia Montague had _succumbed to her injuries_ , he almost laughed in their face. As if Julia would ever _succumb_ to anything. Julia made choices, even hard ones, just as she told him that when they’d first met. She didn’t succumb; she didn’t give up her life, someone took it. He tries to bring her killer to justice, and settles for what he achieves. When he learns about the Prime Minister’s resignation because of the kompromat and hears rumors about rape charges, the history of allegations being hushed down, he connects the dots to the secret Charlotte Foxfield file and he _knows_. He knows why they were at Chequers, why it was important to her, what was going through her head. And he comes to the sad realization that no one else will ever know the truth. She left behind chaos and confusion for all of them. A whole country in disarray, confused and let down by its politicians and security services. And him, confused by how he feels and how to move forward.

He sees the pundits discuss it on the political news shows he becomes obsessed with, sees all of them slowly stop mentioning the late Home Secretary by name and focus solely on the scandal she left behind her. None of them show any interest in the ‘why?’, only in the ‘what now?’. It makes him want to scream. He wants to tell them all the things they don’t know. Wants to right their wrongs, and seek real justice for _her_. Keep her name alive. But he knows he can’t. Some secrets have to stay that way. He tries to reconcile with the fact that the public will never know the real Julia Montague. 

He takes some comfort in watching the country flourish after the storm settles. Great Britain, rising from the ashes of the fires that Julia had started. He thinks occasionally that she would have been Prime Minister if she hadn’t been murdered. And he wonders about the afterlife a lot, if it exists, and she’s watching him from somewhere. If she saw how he fought for her. And he wonders if she knew how he felt before she died, or if his silence was mistaken for reluctance. If she died thinking she was alone.

It takes him months in a therapist’s office to even find a way to try to open up about everything that’s happened to him. He deals with his feelings about the war; he talks about his children, his parents, and his ex-wife. He talks about feeling abandoned and lost. And, eventually, he talks about _her_. He wants someone to know that they existed. That it happened. He spares the sinful details, but he needs to say out loud the things he didn’t get to say to her. His therapist takes it all in, and allows him the freedom to work out all the different emotions he has attached to her. Anger, confusion and disappointment came first. He accepts her part in what happened to him, forgives her for it. When he’s asked about what he feels now when someone says her name; longing, lust, need and gratefulness are the things she’s left behind. Perhaps, he thinks, even love. 

One day, he rents a room at The Blackwood Hotel and asks for her suite. It costs a fucking fortune, but he thinks he might need it to move on. He spends the evening and night in the bed they’d slept in. It’s probably seen countless people since they were there, but it still holds their memories. He can’t help but reach out and touch her side occasionally. He cries, gets drunk and falls asleep without meaning to. As he gets dressed the next morning, he stands in front of the bed and hears her words in his mind. _‘If you’ve meant something to someone, you’ll live on in a way that you don’t otherwise.’_

He had spent more than 10 years with his wife, if he included his time in the army. Slow, occasionally happy, occasionally unhappy, painfully average and normal years. A wedding, babies crying, school runs and marital fights. And before October 4th of last year, he would have said that time was the only thing that mattered, but now he couldn’t. He thinks maybe Julia was right. He’d spent two weeks in that hotel and now he was unable to let her go. She’d made him feel wanted and cared for, and kept him alive until she’d almost become his demise. Time didn’t seem to matter, what mattered was that it happened. She’d _seen_ him. And he’d seen her. Maybe that was the meaning of life.

**Author's Note:**

> You taught me the courage of stars before you left  
> How light carries on endlessly, even after death  
> With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite  
> How rare and beautiful it is to even exist  
> I couldn't help but ask  
> For you to say it all again  
> I tried to write it down  
> But I could never find a pen  
> I'd give anything to hear  
> You say it one more time  
> That the universe was made  
> Just to be seen by my eyes  
> I couldn't help but ask  
> For you to say it all again  
> I tried to write it down  
> But I could never find a pen  
> I'd give anything to hear  
> You say it one more time  
> That the universe was made  
> Just to be seen by my eyes  
> With shortness of breath, I'll explain the infinite  
> How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist


End file.
